Fatal Throne

by Fatal Throne- The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  —

  Alice sits down in the chair by my bed. Her gaze settles on me. She is intelligent, this girl. Not easily swayed or upset. She would make a good physician. A good lawyer or magistrate or mayor or a thousand other things she’ll never be.

  “You said the King was afraid,” she says sceptically.

  A smile twitches at my mouth. “You do not believe me.”

  “You are but a woman, my lady. How could you make a king afraid?”

  I look at Alice, but instead of seeing her, I see myself. Eager. Anxious. Hopeful of a handsome prince. It was seventeen years ago. How is that possible? How can the moments of a life last forever, while the years go by in a heartbeat?

  “It happened on a winter’s day, at the Bishop’s Palace in Rochester,” I begin. “I’d been travelling for weeks through Germany and the Low Countries on my way to London. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. Wherever I stopped—Antwerp, Bruges, Dunkirk—trumpeters played and bonfires blazed. I was given sweetmeats, jewels, gold. My voice was hoarse from talking, my cheeks ached from smiling. I was overwhelmed, but I remembered my mother telling me to bring honour to Cleves, and no matter how tired I was, or how much of a struggle it was to understand the English, and to make myself understood to them, I was always cheerful and gracious.”

  Alice leans forwards, her elbows on her knees.

  “When I reached the port of Calais, the celebrations there dwarfed everything that had come before. Though Calais bordered France, Henry controlled it, and in entering it, I was entering England. He wished my first sight of his realm to be spectacular, and it was. His Lord Admiral, with many other nobles, rode out to meet me. They were accompanied by yeomen in blue and crimson and mariners in Bruges satin. Throngs of people lined the road. There were so many guns firing and cannon going off, I could barely see a foot in front of me for the smoke.”

  Alice’s eyes are shining. “This is a good fairy tale, my lady!” she exclaims.

  “I have not done telling it,” I say ominously. “Henry sent fifty ships to collect us, festooned with banners. They made one of the loveliest sights I’ve ever seen. There were two days of feasts and jousts, but then, when we were to set sail, foul weather delayed us. It wasn’t until after Christmas that we finally made our crossing. After a rest in Dover, we rode on in a storm and arrived at Rochester on New Year’s Eve. We were to spend two nights there, then continue to London.”

  “Why, there is no darkness to this tale at all!” Alice says happily.

  “I could barely sleep that night, thinking how the morning would bring not only a new year—1540—but a new life. I should have been so happy that night, but I wasn’t.”

  Alice’s smile fades. “Why not?”

  I pause, remembering the enormous bed I’d tossed and turned in. The wind howling around the palace. The hail beating at the windows.

  “I was exhausted from travelling. I’d caught a cold. Worst of all, I was homesick,” I tell her. “I dared not say so, though. It would have been an awkward way for a guest to behave, and I was awkward enough already.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Alice.

  “Have you ever attended a feast or revel and there’s a girl in the corner in an ugly dress who can’t seem to say or do the right thing no matter how hard she tries?”

  Alice lowers her eyes. “I have. That girl is usually me.”

  “She was me, too,” I say. “To begin, my clothes were all wrong. The English ladies followed French fashions. Their necklines were square and low; their bodices cut close. My gowns had high necklines, puffed sleeves, and such wide skirts that I looked like a beer barrel in them.”

  Alice tries to smother her giggles. I tell her not to bother.

  “My jewels were pretty,” I continue, “but not as pretty as those of the Lord Admiral’s wife. The English ladies’ headpieces were sleek and elegant; mine made me look like a spaniel. No one said anything to me, but I caught the glances and the smirks. When you can’t speak the language, your eyes make up for your ears. And as bad as my clothing was, it wasn’t the worst of my problems.”

  “What was?” asks Alice.

  “My lack of accomplishments. The English ladies danced and sang. They played instruments and told jokes. They knew French and Latin. They were swans and I a clumsy duck. I’d never been taught to sing or play music. In Cleves, having such skills marked a woman as frivolous. I could read and write, but only German. Wilhelm was the one who received an education.”

  “What did you do, my lady?” Alice asks.

  “I consoled myself by imagining my prince,” I say. “I hoped he would be kind and handsome. People said he was tall, with a fine head of auburn hair and well-turned legs. I also distracted myself with entertainments. There was a bull-baiting on New Year’s Day. I watched it from a window in the great hall, though I did not like it. I thought it cowardly and cruel to set dogs on a bull. In the midst of all the noise and blood, the doors to the hall banged open and half a dozen men came in. They’d been riding; their cloaks and boots were muddy.

  “One of them, an old man who was heavy and lame, bowed to me and told me he had a present from the King. Then he kissed me. His breath was foul, the kiss revolting. I wiped it off with my hand and pushed him away, shocked. How dare he! I was the King’s betrothed, not some harlot in a bawdy house.

  “I sought my German ladies. ‘Wer ist dieser verrückte Mann?’ I asked them. Who is this crazy man? They looked as alarmed as I felt. The English ladies were averting their eyes, as if they’d just witnessed a terrible accident.

  “The old man took a faltering step back, a stricken expression on his face. Good, I thought. That will teach you to keep your hands to yourself. He left the room. His friends followed him. I turned my attention back to the bull-baiting. A few minutes later, the man returned. Only now he was wearing a coat of purple velvet. Trumpeters were playing a fanfare. Courtiers were bowing and curtseying. I looked left and right, utterly bewildered. I had no idea what was happening. Greta was the one who figured it out.

  “ ‘Es ist Henry, der König!’ she whispered.

  “I was stunned. Henry the King? This smelly lunatic? It can’t be, I thought.

  “ ‘Der König, Anna! Sie müssen vor ihm knicksen!’ Greta hissed at me.

  “I dropped into a curtsey and stayed there, grateful to have a few seconds to collect myself. I knew my marriage was about alliances, not love, but I was horrified. All I could think was This shuffling old man will be my husband.

  “By the time Henry raised me from my curtsey, my heart was hidden. He welcomed me, then led me to a private chamber. I told him, with the help of an interpreter, how happy I was to be in his magnificent realm. I said his prank was very clever, hoping to smooth any rough waters, but it was too late. Henry smiled, but his eyes were cold. He bade me good night and withdrew. Later, I learned that he had been so impatient to meet me, he decided not to wait in London for my arrival, but to travel to Rochester in disguise to play a lover’s trick and surprise me. He was certain I would recognize him as my betrothed, because of the true love I was bound to feel for him.”

  Alice giggles again.

  “Have you ever heard such nonsense?” I ask her. “And it came not from some moony little scullery girl, but the King of England! Who was nearly fifty and had been married thrice before, and had killed his first wife by cruel treatment and sent the second to the scaffold. One thing I have noticed, child, is that tyrants are the grandest romantics. They can burn a heretic alive one day, compose a love sonnet the next.”

  Alice is still smiling. But I feel only sadness as I recall the aftermath.

  “I didn’t understand anything. Not the language, or the customs, or Henry. I was unprepared for the ways of the English court. No one told me that Henry liked such pranks, or that he might play one on me
,” I say. “If they had, how different my life might have been. Henry saw himself as young and virile still, and his courtiers knew to cast their faces into masks of admiration to preserve the illusion. But I did not. My face was the looking-glass that showed Henry to himself not as he would be, but as he was.”

  For a moment, I see Henry again. Standing there in that muddy cloak. Old. Broken. Mortal. And for the first time, knowing it.

  “To this day, I am sorry for it. Sorry for him,” I say softly.

  “Sorry for him, my lady?” says Alice, incredulous.

  I nod. “Henry needed love like no one I have ever known. And his greatest romance was with himself. It survived heartbreak and betrayal. Outlasted injury, illness, treason, and death. It survived everything and everyone, Alice. Everyone but me.”

  * * *

  —

  “Did you have a pretty wedding gown?” Alice asks, determined to keep me talking.

  She moves to the window and watches anxiously for the physician.

  “You are relentless, child. Can you not just let me die?”

  “No.”

  I heave a sigh. “It was a pretty gown,” I tell her. “It was made of cloth of gold, embroidered with pearls. I wore jewels at my neck and waist and a gold coronet. My hair was blond then, not grey, and it cascaded down my back. Henry wore crimson and cloth of gold. The sleeves of his coat were slashed and tied with diamonds as big as hazelnuts.”

  “Diamonds on his sleeves?” Alice echoes.

  I nod.

  “How many diamonds, my lady? Four to a sleeve? Five?”

  “Dozens. Too many to count.”

  Alice turns to me, dumbstruck. She cannot imagine such wealth.

  “What was the ceremony like, my lady?” she asks, when she finds her voice.

  “Delayed,” I reply wryly. “Two days before the wedding, Henry’s councillors suddenly became concerned about a betrothal contract between myself and Francis, heir to the Duchy of Lorraine, that had been undertaken when we were children. My German ambassadors assured the English that the contract had been dissolved, but they’d neglected to bring the paperwork from Cleves to prove it.”

  “What happened?”

  “The English were reluctant to press ahead with the wedding, but my ambassadors were adamant that the proper documents could be swiftly fetched from Cleves, and they offered themselves as hostages against the outcome. I was told to sign a paper declaring I was free to marry, and the wedding proceeded. At the time, I thought the delay was due to officials being officious, but I was wrong. Henry was behind it. He was looking for a way out of the marriage.”

  “But he didn’t find one,” Alice says.

  “No, he did not. Count Overstein, a German noble, walked me to the altar. Archbishop Cranmer performed the ceremony. Henry presented me with a gold ring engraved with the words ‘God send me wel to kepe.’ Afterwards, there was a feast. The whole time, I told myself all would be well. Our first meeting had been a disaster, but I thought if I tried hard, I could be a good queen to Henry.”

  “And were you, my lady?” asks Alice. “I should think so. You are a good mistress to me.”

  I smile at that. “I did my best,” I say. “When I became Queen, I was given my own apartments, my own chamberlain and attendants. I liked having my own household. I liked having work to do, things to manage. I tried to win the love of my servants, and the common people, with kind words and good works. I tried to win Henry’s love, too. I studied English diligently. Played the card games he liked. I had my dresses remade in the French style that he favoured.”

  “Did the King do any remaking?” Alice asks, peering out of the window again.

  “Not a bit. He was the tailor, Alice. And we, the court, were his cloth. He shaped us to fit his fancy.”

  “Being Queen sounds exhausting,” Alice says.

  “It was,” I say. “There is no privacy and little quiet. The only time you are alone is at prayer. Which is why so many queens are pious. I never complained, though. My conduct was exemplary. Everyone said as much. The French and Spanish ambassadors. Henry’s courtiers. Henry himself said my conduct was well and seemly. But it didn’t matter. The damage was done.”

  I think back to our first night together, as man and wife.

  “Yes, I was a good queen. In most things, but not all,” I say.

  And then I stop speaking.

  Because this is a memory for myself alone.

  * * *

  —

  The servants undress us. Give us wine. Put us to bed.

  There are carvings on the headboard. Of a man wearing an enormous codpiece, a woman with downcast eyes, plump little cherubs. Our initials, “H” and “A,” are painted in the centre.

  I am awkward. Scared. But determined, too. This is how children are made, and I must make some.

  “Give the King many sons, Anna,” my sister Sibylle had told me, “and many daughters, too. Sons make wars, and daughters prevent them.”

  That is what I’m doing here, isn’t it? In bed with an old man who doesn’t like me? Joining England and Cleves. Preventing France and Spain from attacking my old home, and my new one.

  I see Henry’s belly jiggling inside his nightgown as he gets into bed. Veins, raised and gnarled, wind around his calves. I glimpse the dressing on his ulcerated leg, freshly changed but already wet with pus.

  He drains his goblet and places it on the bedside table. Then he flops back against the pillows, takes a deep breath, and blows it out again.

  “I suppose we should get down to business,” he says, rolling onto his side. “I need a bull calf from my new German cow.”

  I try to smile. I don’t understand all his words, but I know “cow” because it sounds like its German counterpart, Kuh.

  He unties the strings at the neck of my gown. Will he kiss me? I wonder. Will he say something tender?

  Wordlessly, he snakes his hand inside my gown and gropes my breast, hefting it as if it were a ham at a market stall. Then he lifts the hem of my gown and heaves himself on top of me.

  I can barely breathe while he makes his attempt, so great is his weight, but not breathing is no bad thing. His breath has not improved, and the smell from his festering leg makes my stomach twist. There is a great deal of heaving and grunting, but nothing more.

  “Call yourself a woman? Help me, you cold fish,” he mutters, grabbing my hand and placing it on his member. I squeeze it. Perhaps a bit too hard. “Ouch! That hurts!” he yelps. “God’s blood! Are you trying to pull it off?”

  Another attempt. His hands are on me again, rougher now. But the bread does not rise. The sausage does not swell. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard that it bleeds.

  Henry cannot do what he must. He swears. Rolls onto his back. Groans. “This is your fault,” he says. “Dugs like a sow, and the belly to match.”

  Sow. Sau.

  Hot, angry tears roll down my cheeks and soak the pillow.

  I am not a cow, a sow, a fish, or any such animal, I tell him silently.

  I am not my breasts, my belly, my legs, or that which lies between them.

  I am my head and my heart. All that I know, all that I love, everything I hope for.

  I am the blue waters of the Rhine, sparkling in the sun.

  I am ripe pears in a basket. Fresh nutmeg. The smell of Christmas.

  I am swallows soaring over wheat fields.

  I am the hymns the choristers sing. The rise and fall of an old German lullaby.

  “Ich bin all diese Dinge. Diese Dinge und so viele mehr,” I say. I am these things. All these things and so many more.

  Henry can’t understand me. I don’t even know if he hears me. He’s half asleep.

  He rolls over. Farts loudly. And starts to snore.

  * * *

  —

&nb
sp; “My lady, what’s wrong? You’re so pale. Are you bleeding again?”

  A worried Alice is leaning over me, peering at my face.

  “I’m fine,” I say, waving her concern away.

  “You looked as if you were in pain.”

  “I was. It passed.” As most hurts do, given time.

  “The physician will be here soon. I know it,” Alice says anxiously. She sits down again. “You said you were a good queen in most things, but not all. I do not believe that. You are good at everything you put your hand to. How could you have failed the King?”

  “I did not amuse him, child. Henry was not afraid of much, but he was terrified of boredom. His courtiers were run ragged devising entertainments for him. Hunting. Jousting. Racing. Masqueing. Hawking. Dicing. We were so different, Henry and I. He liked theology. I liked cheese. He liked witty words and jests. I liked to sew.” I pause, then add: “And of course there was Catherine Howard.”

  “His fifth Queen,” Alice says.

  “Indeed. She became a lady-in-waiting to me through the influence of Norfolk, her uncle. And in no time, the King’s eye fell upon her—just as Norfolk hoped. Catherine was everything I was not—pretty, a flirt, full of fun and mischief. She was an enchantress who could make an aging man appear young and lusty again, if only to himself. And Norfolk, the clever bawd, set her price high. Catherine would be Queen—nothing less—or Henry could not have her.”

  I am interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats carrying in through the windows. I am glad, for the ache has begun again. “That will be Edmonds on that fine grey gelding of his,” I say. “And it sounds as if Rafe is ahead of him on my little chestnut mare.”

  In a flash, Alice is back at the window. Then she is gone, out of the door and down the stairs, to hurry Edmonds along.

  “I was so naïve. Such a fool,” I whisper to the empty room.

  I had no idea what Norfolk was planning. I thought Henry would take Catherine to bed, not to wife. After all, I was his wife. We had been lawfully married before God, and what God joined together, no man could put asunder.